


two inches to the left

by princesskay



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Caretaking, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23042332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: After Bill is shot during a stakeout, a guilt-ridden Holden offers to help him at home during the recovery.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 21
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

The night is hot and long, and Holden is tired as hell. Just outside the car, he can hear the chirp of cicadas and the hum of insects attracted to the lazy strip of the Mississippi River, but inside, the soft rock humming lazily from the speakers is putting him to sleep. He’s slumped down against the leather of the seat cover, his head tilted back because it’s grown too heavy to keep holding up. He thinks about shutting his eyes just for a minute, then realizes that they’ve already closed against the inescapable pull of exhaustion. The only thing keeping him mildly lucid is the uncomfortable humidity generating a layer of sweat underneath his clothes. 

They’re parked on the curb of a street called  _ Willomina.  _ It’s their fourth street on a rotation of ten for tonight’s shift. They move over a block each hour and watch the street for signs of a young man in a dark hoodie prowling for his next kill. 

For the past three months, the quiet New Orleans suburb of Belle Chasse has been terrorized by a man who thinks he’s the next Son of Sam. He walks the streets at night with a gun, killing at random, sometimes breaking into homes to commit petty thievery alongside the brutal murders. There’s no similarities among the victims, leaving geography as the only constant for them to follow. He’s stayed in the general vicinity, always attacking and escaping before the police can arrive. 

Bill and Holden’s first recourse when they’d been invited onto the case was to requisition extra funds for nightly street surveillance. The city, eager to end the random string of kills, had quickly coughed up the cash. That was three weeks ago, and the long nights are starting to feel a little too frayed and empty, a strain of desperation that tastes like the sour aftertaste of Atlanta that Holden is still trying to wash out of his mouth. 

The scrape of Bill’s lighter and the sharp odor of smoke interrupts the hazy lull of Holden’s brain drifting towards sleep. He rubs his eyes until he sees stars, and suppresses a yawn.

Bill’s gaze wanders over Holden’s bleary expression in the darkness. “You still with me, Holden?” 

Holden casts him a hooded glance, taking in the stern lines of his face backlit by the street lamp washing them in faded, golden shadows. Smoke curls from his lips as if he’s burning from the inside out, his fidgeting making quick work of the crumpled pack of cigarettes shoved in his shirt pocket. 

“Yeah.” Holden mutters, stretching his back in the cramped space of the car. “This heat is making me tired.” 

“I’d like it if, for just one time, the unsub could kill in broad daylight.” Bill says, exhaling a sigh as he shifts against the seat. “I’m getting too old for this.” 

Holden scans the empty street lined with cookie cutter homes where innocent families sleep unaware of their presence. 

“Maybe he’s gotten smart.” He says. “Realized we’re onto him.” 

“It’s too frenzied.” Bill says, stretching his arm out the window to tap ashes from his cigarette. “He’ll show; we just have to stick it out.” 

They have this conversation almost nightly, almost as if they need the reassurance from one another that they’re on the right track. A little while ago, Holden hadn’t needed any kind of verification for his profiles, but Atlanta changed that, changed everything. 

Some of those things are blatant, like the absence of the ring on Bill’s finger, or the fizzle of Valium in Holden’s veins; some are more subdued - the squeeze in Holden’s chest when Bill looks at him softly, not out of pity but out of something much more intense and tender. He doesn’t have a name for it, and he doesn’t know what it looks like until he sees it, until it’s staring at him from across the car like it was just a moment ago. 

There’s a ripple of something tangy and rich and heady like the rush of blood to a skinned knee just underneath the whisper of their voices that makes Holden wonder if he’s going crazy. Maybe the Valium has melted his brain, and a few other places; but he shudders at the slightest graze of Bill’s hand on his skin, at the rasp of his voice in the darkness, at any shadow of his attention that falls in long, black fingers across Holden’s shoulders. He feels hungry, insatiable even, for these moments of privacy when Bill’s attention is divided between the street and him, but staying mainly on him. And in those few hours when they aren’t together while he’s staring at the blank walls of his hotel room or even his own apartment, he’s thinking about not being alone, of Bill inhabiting the same space, taking the edge off the dreaded aloneness that grips him in solitude. 

Holden focuses his gaze on the bare strip of sidewalk just ahead.  _ Maybe it’s the heat and the Valium melting his brain.  _

“So … how are things?” He asks, managing a casual tone. 

“Things?” Bill echoes. 

“Life. Everything.” 

“You mean Nancy and Brian.” 

Holden purses his lips. He’s no good at small talk, especially when he’s digging for details. Bill doesn’t bring up the divorce much at work, and Holden wouldn’t expect him to.  _ It’s personal.  _ But the thought doesn’t curb his curiosity.

“I’m getting a divorce.” Bill says, finally. “It’s going about as well as you could expect.” 

Holden nods, chewing his lower lip. 

“Why?” Bill asks, his tone faintly defensive. “Is there something you’d like to know?” 

“No.” Holden says, “I’m just asking. Isn’t that what friends do?” 

Bill utters a sigh, and rubs his eyes. “You’re right. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I know it’s a tender subject.” 

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and exhales smoke out the open window. He doesn’t seem keen on continuing the conversation so Holden clenches his jaw shut. He supposes he got what was looking for in the brief exchange. 

A few months ago, Bill had been intent upon getting Nancy to change her mind, but that brief interlude of denial is over. His tone suggests that he’s resigned to the fact that their marriage is over; and perhaps Holden is imagining it, but he seems quietly relieved in that acceptance. 

For the next hour, the silence stretches on between them over the languishing radio tunes. Holden feels himself tipping past the point of exhaustion to jittery and alert sleep-deprivation. He bounces his knee as he stares out the window at the vacant sidewalk. 

Bill lights another cigarette, and Holden is getting used to the bitter tinge of smoke in his nostrils. 

As the hour is creeping past 3AM, Holden’s combing gaze stills on what might have first been construed as a shadow turning down the end of the block. 

“Bill.” He whispers, leaning forward to grasp the door handle. 

“What is it?” 

“There.” Holden says, pointing towards the end of the sidewalk. 

A thin figure of average height shuffles down the sidewalk. The gender of the person is nearly concealed by the oversized black hoodie draped over the body, but based on the gait, Holden is almost entirely certain that it’s a man. He has both hands shoved in the front pocket of the sweatshirt, but the distance is still too great to determine whether or not he has a gun hidden inside. 

“It could just be a resident.” Bill says, despite the edge of alarm in his voice. 

“We have to stop him.” Holden says, casting Bill a sharp glance. “We’ll never know either way if we let him keep walking.” 

“I know, just hold on a second.” Bill says, waving a hand. “We need to be careful.”

They both sit utterly still, breath baited, as the man makes his way at a fast pace down the sidewalk. When he draws closer, Holden can glimpse his eyes peeking out from underneath the hood, darting wildly back and forth.

“Look at his body language, the way he’s walking.” Holden says, “Bill, this is our guy.” 

He reaches for the door handle, but Bill’s hand on his shoulder pins him back against the seat. 

“Stay here.” Bill says, casting him a commanding gaze. 

“Bill-” Holden begins to protest, but Bill is already reaching for the door handle. 

“Get on the walkie-talkie.” Bill says, “Get some backup over here.” 

He shoves the car door open, and gets out before Holden can offer any further argument. The door slams shut behind him, and Holden watches him circle the hood of the car.

As Bill strides down the sidewalk in the direction of the hooded figure, the man’s frantic pace slows to an unsteady shuffle. Holden can see his hands fidgeting nervously in the pocket of the sweatshirt. 

Holden’s pulse spikes, echoing in sickening thuds against his ears. Cold sweat breaks past the stuffy layer of perspiration already itching under his armpits. Regret it quick to grip him, breaking past his eagerness to catch the killer into the reality of the danger Bill is suddenly facing.

“Fuck.” Holden whispers, grabbing the walkie-talkie from the console. His hand is shaking as he jabs at the button. “This is Agent Ford checking in. We’re parked over on Willomina. We’ve got a possible suspect on foot. He may have a gun in his pocket.” 

The walkie-talkie hisses static before the Sergeant Mendez, second-in-command of the task force, replies, “We’ll get some back-up over to you immediately. Are you engaging the suspect?” 

Holden clutches the walkie-talkie in his sweating palm, hearing the sergeant’s voice like a distant hum. His gaze is fixed on the sidewalk where Bill and the unsub face one another, no more than three yards apart. 

The man’s face peers pale and alarmed like a frightened rabbit from beneath the hood. His hands shift in his pockets, anxious and twitching. 

Bill raises his right hand in a non-threatening manner, but his other hand drifts towards his sidearm. Holden can’t hear what he’s saying over the shrill ring of panic rising in the back of his mind. 

“Agent Ford?” Mendez’s voice crackles from the radio. 

Watching the encounter on the sidewalk unfold, Holden can’t reply. His throat is a thick knot of horror. He can feel the trickle of sweat crawling down his temples as nausea rises, churning in his belly in gradually hastening revolutions. 

The suspect’s hand lurches in his pocket, and time seems to slow to a crawl. Holden grabs at the door handle, but every movement feels excruciatingly slow, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated in his scramble for both the door and his sidearm. 

He manages to unlatch the door, but as he clambers out of the vehicle, the trickle of events explode into a sudden burst action. One second, Holden is staring at the gunman’s hand sliding out of his pocket. The next, he hears himself yelling Bill’s name. Then, he can’t differentiate between one second and the next as the gun goes off. 

The sound is so deafening that Holden’s entire body seizes in shock despite seeing the weapon emerge from the hoodie. He lurches against the door, his hands white-knuckled around the dull, steely edge. He can’t breathe as the seconds unfold quicksilver flashes with raw, horrifying momentum. 

Bill ducks to one side, but Holden sees the tell-tale jolt of his body absorbing the massive kinetic energy of a bullet slamming through flesh. He staggers backwards, his hand tugging limply at his sidearm. For half a second, Holden thinks he might wrangle the gun upright and return fire; but his shuffling feet lose balance on the sidewalk, and he falls. 

The seconds slow back down. Holden watches the minute shift of Bill’s feet just before he falls to his hip and elbow, at last spilling onto his side. 

Holden moves without thinking. He hears the walkie-talkie hit the pavement, but he’s already running down the sidewalk before he can think to answer Mendez’s panicked voice screeching across the crackling radio waves. 

The unsub clutches his gun and stares at Bill’s fallen body before lifting wide, gaunt eyes towards Holden. Panic registers in the hollow stare before he turns to flee in the direction he’d come. 

“Stop!” Holden shouts, tearing his sidearm from its holster. “Federal agent!” 

The man races down the sidewalk, scrambles wildly around the corner, and disappears down the adjacent street without looking back. The wail of sirens cuts through the air as his hooded figure slips out of sight, and Holden’s pace cuts to a dead halt where Bill is lying on the sidewalk. 

He drops to his knees, breathing hard, panic screeching through his mind. 

“No, no, no.” He can hear himself whispering it over and over, but everything feels numb and far away as he grasps Bill’s shoulder. 

Bill grunts as he rolls onto his back, squinting hard at the night sky. Blood blooms in a crimson flower across the pale yellow of his shirt, rushing to plaster the fabric to his shoulder. 

“Holden…” He rasps, clutching at Holden’s wrist. 

“Oh my god.” Holden whispers. Stars prickle at the corners of his eyes as he takes in the sight of blood gushing from the wound, and the pale, grimaced expression pinching Bill’s face. Nausea lurches in his belly, threatening to flatten him on the sidewalk next to Bill. 

“What’re you doing …” Bill groans, his trembling fist seizing at Holden’s chest. “Go.” 

“What?” 

“He’s getting away.” 

“He shot you.” Holden whispers, his body flushing cold then hot as the words tumble in shock from his mouth. 

“I know. And he’s getting away.” Bill grunts, the heel of his hand shoving at the center of Holden’s chest. “I’m fine. Go.” 

“You’re not fine. You’ve been shot. Jesus Christ, Bill. He fucking shot you.” 

Bill’s eyes slip shut against a wince of pain. 

Holden drops his sidearm to the sidewalk with a clatter, and leans back to strip out of his polo. Balling the shirt up, he presses it over Bill’s shoulder where he can see the tattered fabric and the gash of torn flesh streaming with blood. 

Bill groans at the contact, and grabs onto Holden’s wrist with blood-stained fingers. 

“Fuck.” He curses his eyes slipping open to glimpse Holden’s panicked gaze staring down at him. “Jesus, fuck, Holden, that fucking hurts.” 

“We need to stop the bleeding.” Holden says, “I called for backup, but we need an ambulance. Hold this in place.” 

Bill nods, and exchanges his iron grip on Holden’s wrist for the shirt. 

Holden slowly relinquishes his grasp, and clambers to his feet. His legs feel numb as he jogs back down the sidewalk to the car. Finding the walkie-talkie discarded on the pavement, he leans against the cool steel of the car door, and says, “We need an ambulance. An agent’s been shot … Fuck. The suspect got away.” 

He doesn’t wait to hear the response before he shoves off the car, and rushes back down the sidewalk to where Bill is laying. 

Bill’s eyes are shut, but his chest is lifting with raspy, pained inhales. 

“Hey, Bill, are you still with me?” Holden whispers, shakily, as he drops back down the coarse cement. 

“Yeah, I’m here.” Bill whispers, his voice faint and thready. 

Holden clasps his hand over Bill’s, pressing the polo in place. Blood has seeped through the white fabric to glaze both of their fingers in slick red. Holden can almost taste the coppery tang. 

Mendez and three other police cars arrive within the next few seconds. The ambulance isn’t far behind them. Nobody asks about the suspect as they crowd around the sidewalk, concerned gazes landing on Bill’s prone body. 

Holden grudgingly relinquishes his grip when the EMTs arrive, but hovers close by while they carefully lift Bill onto the stretcher. 

“I’m riding with you.” He says. 

“Come on, then.” The EMT replies, nodding toward the ambulance. “Do you need looked at?” 

Holden glances down at himself. He’s shivering in his undershirt, and his hands and forearms are stained with swipes of blood. 

“I’m okay, I think. I don’t know.” 

“You’re in shock.” The EMT says, leading him towards the ambulance. “Come on, I’ll get you a blanket.” 

Once they’re loaded into the ambulance, Holden cowers on the bench in the blanket while the EMTs discard his blood-soaked polo, and cut Bill’s shirt open to get a look at the wound. He watches their practiced movements, knowing fully that they’re trained professionals, and given the response time, Bill will be okay; but the panic has yet to subside, and one thought is already rising above the rest:  _ this is my fault.  _

~

Bill and Holden are separated at the ER. While Bill is whisked away to the operating room, Holden, Mendez, and the other officers who had followed them to the hospital are shunted into the waiting area to endure the next few hours in agonizing silence. 

Mendez orders one of the uniformed officers to go back to the hotel to retrieve a fresh pair of clothes for Holden, and gets them both cups of coffee from the machine in the hall. 

Holden takes a seat in the waiting area with the blanket from the ambulance still clutched around his shoulders. When he reaches his fingers from within to accept the cup of coffee from Mendez, he realizes the blood has dried under his fingernails and into the tiny crevices of his knuckles.  _ Bill’s blood.  _

He takes a sip of the coffee, and winces at the burnt flavor. It tastes like nothing and everything. He sets it on the side table where a stack of out-of-date magazines are left to distract families from the anguish of the unknown. Most of it is trashy celebrity news, and Holden wants to laugh at the absurdity of speculating on which actor is dating whom while his partner is being operated on behind the closed door of the ER. 

“He’s gonna be okay.” Mendez says, his voice breaking past the dull roar in Holden’s brain. 

Holden stares at the dingy floor tiles. “The unsub got away.” 

Mendez nods. “We’ll find him. You did the right thing.” 

“Did I?” 

“An officer’s life is always more important.” Mendez says, “We’ve got our guy spooked. He’s bound to fuck up, make a mistake. He just shot an FBI agent. He must be shitting bricks.” 

“He’s killed a lot of people.” 

“Not a federal agent.” 

Holden closes his eyes, expelling a steadying sigh. “You think he thinks Bill is … is dead?” 

“Maybe. If he does, it works in our favor. No offense to your partner.” 

Holden swallows hard against the knot thickening in the back of his throat. He takes another sip of coffee to ease the clutch of tears, but he can barely swallow down the bitter taste. 

“Hey, buddy,” Mendez says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t beat yourself up. You reacted about as well as anyone would in that situation.” 

Holden shakes his head. “It was my fault.” 

“How’s that?” 

“I saw the suspect approaching.” Holden says, “I was going to get out of the car and stop him. I just wanted so badly to … If I hadn’t been so insistent, Bill wouldn’t have-” 

Mendez gives his shoulder another squeeze as the remark tapers off. He doesn’t offer any further assurances, and Holden wonders if he’s judging the rash decision-making that had led to this moment. The man has twenty years of experience on the force. Surely he’s never gotten his own partner shot out of something as stupid as impatience. 

Half an hour later, the uniformed officer returns with the change of clothes for Holden. Holden is rising from his chair to take the clothes to the bathroom when a voice over the PA system announces that he has a call on the phone at the front desk. 

Holden swallows hard. “I better go take that. It’s probably Gunn.” 

Mendez casts him a compassionate gaze. “Let me know if he needs any statements from me or my guys.” 

“Thanks.” Holden whispers. 

Clutching the blanket around his shoulders, he trudges down the hall to the front lobby where the receptionist has the phone on hold. 

“I’m Holden Ford.” He says, “There’s a call for me?”

“Yes, sir.” She says, grabbing the receiver from the cradle and handing it over to him. She takes the phone off hold, and Holden turns his back to her to give himself a scrap of privacy. 

“Hello?” 

“Holden? It’s Ted. I just got the call. What the hell happened?” 

Holden closes his eyes, suppressing the flare of panic in his chest. “Bill was shot.” 

“I understand that. How exactly?” 

“The unsub. We were on street surveillance. We saw him approaching, and I didn’t -  _ we  _ didn’t - want him to get away.” 

There’s a pause, and Holden can hear Ted absorbing this information with a critical ear. 

“Bill approached the suspect without backup?” He asks, finally. “That doesn’t sound like him.” 

Holden clenches his jaw. “No, sir.” 

Another beat of silence. “That was extremely reckless. I’m hard-pressed to understand why he would do such a thing.” 

Heat rushes to Holden’s face. Ted is probing for details, no doubt already piecing together the truth based on his reticence. It’s bound to come out in the report, but he feels too fragile and exhausted to take the brunt of Ted’s disappointment over the phone. 

“I’ll write up a report in the morning.” Holden says, “We’re still waiting for him to come out of surgery.” 

“You’ll let me know as soon as you know anything?” 

“Of course.” 

“And Holden?” 

“Yes?” 

“I hope this is a learning opportunity.” Ted says, “This is a fuck-up that could have been avoided. I don’t appreciate getting this kind of phone call at three o’clock in the morning.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Are you all right?” 

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

“Good. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“Yes. Okay. Goodnight, Ted.” 

The line clicks, and Holden clutches the receiver for a moment before drawing in a deep breath. He turns around to hand the receiver back to the secretary. There’s blood where his hand was clutched around the phone, and she glares at him. 

“Sorry.” 

She takes the receiver carefully, and sets it aside to search for a wet wipe. 

Holden wanders back down the hall to the waiting area, and retrieves the plastic bag with his change of clothes. 

“How did it go?” Mendez asks. 

“He reamed my ass.” Holden says, “Not surprisingly.” 

Without searching for any further commiseration, Holden takes the bag down the hall to the bathroom. Slipping inside, he scans the empty stalls before turning the lock on the door. 

The glare of the overhead, paneled lights casts a fevered, jaundiced glow across his pale cheeks as he slowly approaches the row of sinks. He lets the blanket slip from his shoulders, and crumple to the ground, exposing the blood-stained undershirt and his caked fingers and forearms to the harsh reflection of the mirror. 

Holden stares at the image of his sallow cheeks, the dark circles ringing his glazed, bloodshot eyes, and the filmy layer of sweat misting his forehead. He looks terrible, one step behind Bill. Physically, nothing hurts, but suddenly he can’t breathe as the very thought of the ER doors closing behind the stretcher forces his chest to seize. 

A quiet, scraped gasp echoes through the hollow cavern of the bathroom, and he watches his own expression crumple into terrified anguish. Clutching the edge of the sink, he lets his head drop between his shoulders. The image of his bloody fingers blanching around the white ceramic lip of the sink blurs into an ugly wash of red as tears rush hot and implacable to his eyes. 

The shock has abated. Ted’s tongue-lashing had seen to that. The hazy glaze of fear strips back to reveal the ugly maw of reality staring back at him. Suddenly, he can feel everything again - the itch of dried layers of sweat, the crackle of blood around his knuckles, the tremor of dissipated adrenaline, the thought of losing Bill clutching at his chest with a jagged fist. 

That idea - more than Ted’s disappointment, more than the unsub’s escape, more than the investigation spiraling into a tailspin - grips him with nearly suffocating force. Bill could have died because of him. Holden could have lost him in a second because of his own reckless lack of judgment. His desire to catch the killer may have resulted in Bill never knowing just how much his relationship means to Holden, how he couldn’t endure these long nights with anyone else, how he couldn’t do this job with some different beside him, how he needs Bill’s assurances and belief in him like he needs air to breathe. 

Holden sucks in a deep breath against the quiver of tears squeezing his lungs. Slowly, he lifts his head to appraise his tear-stained, trembling reflection with strengthening resolve. Then, he turns on the faucet, and washes the blood down the drain. 

~

Bill feels like he’s crawling out of a deep, dark hole, perhaps a premature grave that someone had stuffed him into. Or maybe a bad fucking trip.  _ What the hell was in those drinks?  _

As he forces his heavy eyelids open to glimpse the fuzzy details of the hospital room, he realizes he and Holden had drinks with the local cops more than a day ago, and a lot has transpired since then. His brain is omitting a few things. It’s all coming back slowly, disjointed and out of order. Holden’s panicked eyes staring down at him plasters across the back of his mind, cementing there over the finer details, like the smoking barrel of a handgun. 

Bill moves against the bedsheets, and is immediately greeted with a hiss of pain that travels from his shoulder, down his arm, and radiates to the rest of his body. A sound of pain clumps at the back of his throat, but his tongue feels like a dry, dead weight, too heavy for any real verbalization. 

“Bill.” 

Bill’s gaze cuts to the left to see Holden scrambling out of the chair in the corner. His hand lifts from the sheets, encumbered by the oxygen monitor on his index and the IV stuck in the back of his hand. 

“Holden. You’re still with me.” 

“Of course. I’m so glad to see you awake.” 

Bill grunts a response, and shifts his gaze to the cup of water sitting on the bedside table. 

“Here.” Holden says, snatching the cup from the table. 

He holds the straw to Bill’s mouth, and Bill wraps half-numb lips around it to gulp down the water against his dry, aching throat.. When he drains the cup, Holden sets it aside, and puts a hand on his arm. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Like I got shot.” Bill says, “And run over. And thrown into a shallow grave.”

Holden lowers his head as he sinks to the edge of the mattress. “Bill, I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“What do you remember?” Holden asks, softly. 

Bill frowns as the memories begin to piece back together, fragments of conversation brushing up against his recollection. 

“I was the one who insisted we stop the suspect.” Holden whispers, “It should be me in this bed right now.” 

Bill exhales a sigh. The expansion of his lungs hurts, but just existing right now hurts. Besides, the taste of oxygen makes him feel alive, a small detail he hasn’t appreciated until everything was fading to black on the sidewalk. 

“What time is it?” Bill asks, squinting at the fading sunlight peeking past the blinds. 

“Almost seven.” Holden says. “At night. You’ve been sleeping since you came out of surgery this morning.” 

“You been here all day?” 

“Yes.” 

Bill grunts as he shifts against the mattress. His whole body feels stiff as a board, and he wants to move if only to remember that he can. 

“Wait, don’t move.” Holden says, pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder. “You don’t want to rip your stitches.”

“Fuck.” Bill mutters, letting his head drop back against the sheets. “I need to call Nancy. If she hears this from the Bureau, she’s going to lose her shit.” 

“Yeah, about that …” 

Bill cuts Holden a frown at the cowed tone of voice. “What?” 

“Ted called.” Holden says, wincing. “Someone informed him right away. Chances are Nancy has already heard about it.” 

“Christ.” Bill says, rubbing his free hand over his face. 

Everything is falling back into place, jagged memories lining up in concise order to paint a picture of reckless stupidity. 

“This is bad, Holden.” 

Holden smooths the wrinkle out of his pant leg with trembling fingers. “I know. Trust me, I already heard it from Ted.” 

“What did he say?” 

“That we should take this as a learning opportunity. It’s a disaster that could have been avoided. It was reckless.” 

“He isn’t wrong. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.” 

Bill opens his eyes when Holden fails to reply. 

He’s sitting hunched over the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped around his middle while his other hand braces over his mouth. His eyes are squeezed shut while a slow, sharp breath seeps past the flare of his nostrils. His shoulders hold a tremor that seems to be bracing back something worse. 

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Bill asks, trying to manage a light tone. “It’s gonna be fine. We’ve been through authoritative scrutiny before.” 

“I don’t care about Ted or OPR.” Holden says, his wet eyes darting to Bill’s before cutting away again. “You were shot. And it was my fault.” 

“Holden-”

“You could have been killed.” 

“But I wasn’t. Come on, pull yourself together.” 

Holden gets up from the bed, and paces away. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“Two inches to the left, and the doctor said the bullet would have pierced a major artery.” Holden says, quietly. “Two inches, Bill.” 

Bill clenches his jaw. It sounds worse like that. Bill isn’t one to dwell on the details, but it’s most likely going to keep Holden up at night. 

“Look, Holden, I’m still carrying around shrapnel from Korea.” Bill says, shoving up against the pillows despite the shaft of pain that runs down his shoulder. “Gunshot wounds are all about dumb luck. I guess I got lucky again so I’m just going to sit here and be grateful for that.” 

Holden turns on his heel to cast Bill a misty, tremulous gaze. He seems on the verge of saying something more, but instead musters a faint smile. 

Bill sighs, “You look like shit. You should really go back to the hotel and get some sleep.” 

“I got a few hours in the chair.” Holden says, “I didn’t want to leave before you woke up.” 

He wanders back to the edge of the bed, and extends hesitant fingers to touch Bill’s forearm. His head is turned down, hiding the glimmer in his eyes. Bill hears him draw in a raspy, uneasy breath. 

“You really scared me there for a minute.” Holden murmurs, dusting his fingers down Bill’s arm, carefully avoiding the strand of the IV until his thumb is brushing up again the inner knot of Bill’s wrist.

Bill stares at Holden’s fingers, the density of the contact rippling across his skin with greater force than what’s belied by the tremulous caress of Holden’s hand.

Bill clears his throat. “Well, take a good look. I’m gonna be fine.” 

Holden peers up at him from beneath damp eyelashes. His eyes are deep, ocean blue in the dim light of the room, and Bill can almost feel himself falling into the depths, down into the dark where there’s too much pressure to breathe. 

“When you were laying there on the sidewalk, I had this terrible feeling …” Holden whispers, his voice barely a husky whisper. 

Bill musters a scrap of levity. “What’s that? ‘Oh shit, Gunn is gonna have my ass for this’?”

Holden huffs a scarce chuckle. “No … and yes.”

His fingers creep past the lodged needle of the IV, tracing out the ridges and grooves of Bill’s knuckles. Drawing in a steadying breath, he shakes his head. “No, it’s just that … I’ve never had to think about doing this job without you.” 

Bill swallows hard. His chest is hurting again, though not from the simple act of breathing. Something deeper stirs within that’s linked directly to the distracting graze of Holden’s fingers wandering across his knuckles. It takes him a few concentrated attempts before he manages to transfer the mild panic swelling in the back of his mind into action and pull his hand out from under Holden’s touch. 

“Well, you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.” He says, the humor wilting from his tone even as he presses it in place. 

Holden’s hand curls into a fist against the bedsheets. He nods slowly, and sinks down to the edge of the mattress. Rubbing a hand over his face and through his disheveled hair, he mutters, “The suspect got away.” 

Bill absorbs this new information for a moment before speaking. “I told you to go.” 

“I know, but I couldn’t leave you on the sidewalk like that … I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t-”

Bill glances away as Holden’s voice crumbles again. The last thing he remembers before everything faded to black was the weight of Holden’s body overtop him, applying pressure to the wound. Maybe if Holden had run after the unsub, this moment would feel different; maybe he wouldn’t want to feel that weight again - Holden’s hands over his beating heart - as much as he does right this second. 

Bill closes his eyes. He’s got so many drugs in his body, he probably doesn’t know up from down, doesn’t know real impulse from drugged delirium. 

“Holden.” He murmurs, his voice choked on something stronger that he can’t quite pin down. 

Holden lifts moist, blood-shot eyes, heavy with exhaustion, to meet Bill’s gaze. He’s probably spent every minute since that gun fired beating himself up, but while Bill is suffering the consequences, he doesn’t feel pleased or vindicated by that realization. 

Before Bill can articulate what he’s trying to say, a nurse enters the room with a tray of new sterile bandages. 

Holden steps aside while she introduces herself, and explains that she’s going to change the bandage and take vitals. He watches carefully while the nurse washes her hands, removes the old bandages, washes her hands again, and applies to new dressing. Throughout the process, she explains that after Bill is released from the hospital he’ll have to follow the steps carefully to avoid infection. Bill lets her know that he’s been through this before, and he’s aware of the risk factors. 

“Well, your vitals look very good.” She says, draping her stethoscope around her neck, and jotting down the numbers on her clipboard. “It looks like you pulled through the surgery very well. How’s your pain level?” 

“Tolerable.” Bill says, “I’m more worried about dinner. I feel like I could eat a horse.” 

“I understand.” She says, chuckling. “I’ll see about getting a tray in here. The doctor should be in soon to talk things over with you.” 

“Thank you.” 

As she leaves the room, Holden shuffles back to the edge of the bed. His eyes are keenly focused, and Bill can all but see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. 

“What?” He asks. 

“It sounds like the recovery from this could be pretty intense.” Holden says. 

“Yeah.” Bill replies, “I know, I’ve been shot before.” 

“Shouldn’t you have someone around to help you?” Holden asks, “At home, I mean.” 

Bill’s eyes narrow. “I guess it would be helpful.” 

“It would be hard on your own without the use of one arm, especially at the beginning.” Holden says. 

“What? Are you volunteering?” Bill scoffs. 

Holden glances away, and shrugs. “Yes. I mean, if you would want that … I feel like it’s my duty since it’s my fault this happened in the first place.” 

Bill assesses him quietly. A few years ago, he would have declined Holden’s suggestion immediately. He’d been too set in his ways, too strictly private to let a co-worker into his home; but things have changed. He’s alone most nights of the week now, and Holden isn’t just a co-worker. Bill tells himself he’s going to let Holden have this, if only to soothe his conscience. 

“Okay.” Bill says. 

Holden’s eyes brighten. “Really?” 

“Yes. I can’t think of a reason why I’d say no to making you do my laundry and dishes for a few weeks.” 

Holden suppresses a chuckle. “I might even make you dinner.” 

“You? Cooking dinner?” 

“Yes. I know how to make a few things.” Holden says, feigning indignance. “You might be surprised.” 

“That’s right, I would be.” 

Holden stays until the nurse brings Bill his dinner and the doctor arrives to discuss the particulars of the injury. He sits quietly in the chair in the corner, but Bill can see that he’s absorbing all the details, especially the doctor’s strict instructions not to do any heavy lifting, stretching, reaching, or otherwise “over-doing it.” 

Bill acknowledges all of the doctor’s admonitions, but Holden appears more concerned about the after-care than him. Bill wants to tell him that he survived a much higher caliber ballistic in Korea where there were far fewer trained professionals and modern amenities; but Holden has that determined look in his eyes, unswayed by anything as distant as war stories. Ruefully, Bill wonders just how long it’s going to take him to start regretting the decision to let Holden stay with him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Two more residents of Belle Chasse die before the killer is arrested. It happens at 8:00 on Wednesday night a week after Bill and Holden are pulled from the case. 

Mendez calls Holden at home to let him know what happened. The unsub walked into a gas station with a gun and began shooting unprovoked. The attendant and the woman checking out at the register were both pronounced dead at the scene while three others were taken to the hospital to be treated for their injuries. 

“It seems like I was right.” Mendez says, “Shooting your partner really got him rattled. He’d never attacked in a public place before.” 

“Are you trying to make me feel better by saying that?” Holden asks, mustering a chuckle. “You should have heard the tongue-lashing I got from my boss  _ and  _ my co-workers when I got home.” 

“I guess I’m just saying that it all worked out.” Mendez says, “We got the guy; and your partner - he’s gonna be okay, right?” 

“Yes, for the most part.” 

Holden doesn’t add that he’s going to be playing nurse-maid for the next few weeks. He hangs up with Mendez, and returns to his bedroom where he’s packing a suitcase of necessities to take with him. 

Anxiety roils in his belly as he takes the bottle of Valium from the bathroom medicine cabinet. What he’s feeling right now doesn’t match the stark niggling of a panic attack. It feels like prom night or a blind date, and he isn’t quite sure how to manage it. He keeps trying to tell himself that it won’t be any different from the old days of road school when they shared a hotel room, but the familiarity of Bill’s company lands differently inside the privacy of his home. Holden thinks he’s stepping across a line that he can’t quite glimpse. 

Tamping down his nerves, Holden checks the rooms of his apartment one last time to confirm he isn’t forgetting anything before locking the door behind him and heading for the airport. 

When he arrives, Bill is standing under the front awning. With the cigarette perched on his lips and his flattop still perfectly combed, he would have looked entirely normal except for his left arm cradled in the sling. 

Holden draws in a deep breath as he pulls along the curb. He climbs out of the car, and circles the hood to meet Bill. 

“Hey.” Bill says, tossing his cigarette to the ground. 

“Hey. Let me get this.” Holden says, bending to retrieve Bill’s suitcase from the ground. 

“Thanks.”

“How do you feel?” Holden asks as he hoists the suitcase into the trunk. 

“Okay.” Bill says, “We’ll see once the last of the morphine wears off.” 

Holden slams the trunk shut, and rushes to get the passenger side door open as Bill reaches for the handle. 

“Here, I got.” Holden says, pulling the door open. 

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Bill says, “You can calm down. I’m not a complete invalid.” 

“I watched you get shot.” Holden says, leaning against the car door to cast Bill a pointed glare as Bill winces sliding into the passenger seat. “Sorry if I’m a little on edge.” 

Bill averts his gaze, shaking his head. 

Holden nudges the door shut. 

Climbing behind the wheel, he suppresses the urge to help Bill get the seatbelt around the sling and across his lap. Bill manages to latch the seatbelt after a few moments of concealed grunts. 

He sighs aloud as Holden pulls the car away from the curb. “We have to make a stop on the way home.” He says, digging two small slips of paper out of his pocket. 

“Where?” 

“Pharmacy.” Bill says, scanning the prescriptions. “Fuck.” 

“What?” 

“Percocet.” Bill says, holding up the slip. “I hate taking this shit.”

“You’re probably going to need it.” 

Bill mutters a complaint, and sinks down in the seat. He fumbles in his pocket for his cigarettes, plying one free one-handed, and pushing it into his mouth before flicking his lighter open. 

Holden watches from the corner of his eye as smoke billows from his lips. The knot in the back of his throat tightens. When he’d demanded they stop the suspect, he’d never envisioned this outcome. All he could think about was stopping the killings; now all he can think about is the pain that Bill must be in, the pain he caused. 

They stop off at the pharmacy, and Bill picks up the prescriptions and a new pack of cigarettes. Once they’re on the road headed for Bill’s house, Bill clears his throat. 

“So, how long do I have?” He asks. 

“Until what?” Holden asks, flexing his fingers around the steering wheel. 

“Until I get called in by OPR.”

Holden squints at the upcoming street sign, and draws in a deep breath. “A week. I have to go in first thing Monday morning.”

Bill nods, slowly. “A week. Generous of them.”

“You know, I’m going to take full responsibility.” Holden says, “If anyone should be censured, it should be me. You … you should get a commendation from the director.”

Bill offers a coarse chuckle. “I appreciate that, Holden, but I got out of the car and approached the suspect. Just because I took a bullet doesn’t make me some kind of fucking hero. There’s a big difference between courage and plain stupid.”

Holden clenches his jaw as he steers the car through the turn onto Bill’s street. Pulling into the driveway, he shuts the engine off, and releases a low sigh. The engine ticks as it cools, filling the humming silence. A yard over, a group of kids are playing baseball, their shouts of joy echoing down the block. 

Suddenly, Holden feels alarmingly out of place, like he can see the world spinning upside down and inside out. The thread of consequence unwinds backwards with glaring simplicity, but everything since Atlanta feels out of order and wrong. Bill should be here at home with his wife and son, not Holden. Holden should be in his sparse, lonely apartment planning for the next interview in solitude. He shouldn’t be wanting this closeness to Bill that he feels - shouldn’t be using a terrible situation to get it. But here he is, and he’ll be surrounded by the same four walls as Bill for the foreseeable future. 

Holden startles when Bill clears his throat. 

“You wanna go inside?”

Holden cuts a tentative glance over to him, hoping his eyes don’t betray the confusion he feels swarming in his chest. 

“Yeah.” He whispers. 

The corner of Bill’s mouth twitches with a faint smile. He takes off his seatbelt, and reaches for the door handle, pausing with his gaze fixed on the dashboard. 

“Holden, I- …”

“What?”

Bill looks up slowly, the pale blue of his eyes almost transparent in the sunlight. Tension sifts across the minute flicker of muscle around his mouth and eyes before melting away into a gentle admission. “Thanks … for doing this.”

“Of course. Like I said, I feel-”

“Responsible, I know.” Bill says, “Can you just say ‘you’re welcome’, and we won’t bring it up again?”

Heat flushes Holden’s cheeks, and he wants to look away; but Bill’s eyes hold onto him firmly. He nods, hesitantly. 

“You’re welcome.”

“Okay.” Bill says, drawing in a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

He shoulders the car door open, and climbs out with a muted grunt. Holden jolts into motion to follow him. He wrangles Bill’s luggage and his own out of the trunk, and follows Bill to the front door. Once inside, Holden drops the bags in the living room, and straightens to scan the interior of the house. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never invited me over before.” He says. 

“It’s been less than three months since I bought the place.” Bill replies, “I’m still getting used to it myself.”

Holden glances at the couch. “So this is where I’ll be sleeping.”

“Yeah, sorry. The guest bedroom is my office.” Bill says. “I didn’t plan on having anyone stay with me long term when I moved in.” 

Holden sits down on the couch, bouncing slightly to test the spring in the cushions. 

“Hey, you signed yourself up for this.” Bill says, “I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Bill shuffles into the kitchen while Holden leans back against the couch, feeling his body sink into the dated cushions. He glances around the living room, noting the scarce pictures and decor. The few framed photographs are of Brian. It’s obvious Bill doesn’t spend much time here or have guests over. The ashtray in the middle of the coffee table is the only sign of life in the otherwise impersonal space.

Quietly, Holden wonders what the bedroom looks like. Are the sheets made up military style, or haphazardly thrown over the pillow like the organized chaos of Bill’s desk at work? Is there a book on the nightstand? A few dirty magazines in plain view now that a child doesn’t live in the same space any longer? 

Holden startles when Bill re-enters the room, holding two beer bottles in his good hand. Shoving up against the cushions, Holden smothers the inappropriate thoughts. 

“Here.” Bill says, offering him the beer. 

“It’s two in the afternoon.” Holden says. 

Bill shrugs. “I think we’ve earned it.”

Holden takes the beer, but cradles it loosely in his lap while Bill sinks down to the cushions beside him with a pained sigh. 

“You need some of those pills?” Holden asks, nodding at the paper pharmacy sack sitting on the coffee table. 

“Nah, I’m good.” Bill says, taking a careful sip of his beer. 

Holden notices his hand trembling, but purses his mouth over an insistence. Maybe he’d gotten himself in deeper than he bargained for. He should have known Bill would be a stubborn patient. 

Taking a sip of his beer, Holden peeks at Bill’s rigid profile turned toward the opposite wall. His mouth grimaces against a swallow, but he doesn’t make a sound despite the pain written into the lines on his face. 

Holden’s chest twists, a mix of guilt and empathy. Despite his anxiety, he’s relieved he’s here with Bill, and not anywhere else. He’s not sure he could cope with the memory of Bill lying wounded on the sidewalk plastered across the back of his mind like an unforgettable mosaic if he was alone. 

_ Maybe it’s selfish,  _ he thinks,  _ to want this arrangement more for himself than Bill.  _

But he doesn’t say it aloud because Bill had made it clear he doesn’t want Holden’s guilt or self-pity. More than anything he doesn’t want either of them to be alone, and right now, sharing a beer in silence, they’re far enough from solitude to feel safe. 

~

Holden can hear the tick of the clock on the wall counting out the seconds towards midnight. Faint moonlight streaks past the curtains of the picture window above the couch, casting the shapes of the furniture and his body draped in the faded wool blanket Bill had dug from the closet in milky illumination. 

They’d ordered carry-out from a Chinese place for dinner and watched the latter half of a baseball game before Bill announced he was bushed. Holden had stayed up an hour longer, aimlessly watching the television play re-runs of  _ Emergency!  _ before he figured he should get some sleep. 

Tomorrow he has to face OPR and explain what happened in Louisiana. He’d rather not walk into the interview with bags under his eyes, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t force his eyes to close or his mind to stop racing. 

Having already evaded disciplinary action once before, he’d prefer not to be censured, but the last thing he wants is for Bill to take the brunt of punishment for what happened. He rehearses what he’ll say to the OPR team in his head, running the lines with various tweaks again and again with a clinging fear that no matter what he says, it won’t matter and they’ve already made their decision based on the facts as written in the police report. 

Holden’s churning thoughts come to a halt when he hears a thump and a groan from down the hallway. He sits upright on the couch, his heart bolting his chest. His ears strain in the silence, waiting for the sound to come again. When he hears Bill cough quietly, it’s all he needs. 

Tossing the blanket aside, Holden climbs to his feet, and makes his way to the hallway leading toward the bedroom. He reaches out to find the wall, following it through the shadows until he reaches the closed door of Bill’s bedroom. 

He knocks softly. “Bill?” 

He hears a muted response, more of a grunt than a reply. 

Drawing a deep breath, Holden reaches down to locate the doorknob, and carefully twists it open. The hinges protest quietly in the dead silence of the house. 

“Bill? Are you okay?” Holden whispers, peering through the darkness at the faint outline of the bed. 

The springs squeal softly as Bill sits up, shoving aside the blankets with a grunt. 

“I’m fine.”

Holden lingers in the doorway, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness to see Bill sitting on the edge of the bed, his forehead braced against his knuckles. 

“Are you sure?”

Bill draws in a muted, shuddering breath, and lets it out slowly. 

Holden bites the inside of his cheek, second-guessing the protective urge squirming in his chest before letting it overpower his hesitance. Nudging the door aside, he crosses the room to turn on the bedside lamp. 

Yellow light washes across Bill’s grimace and the glistening perspiration misting his forehead and chest. The bandage plastered over his shoulder is stained with a circular spot of red blood absorbing through layers of gauze. 

“You don’t look fine.” Holden says. “Did you take any of the pain meds?”

Bill clenches his jaw, his eyes slipping shut over gathering moisture. 

Holden sighs, aloud. “I think it’s time you do.”

Bill gives a faint nod in reply. 

“I’ll get you some water.” 

Any idea of sleep has fled Holden’s brain as he goes back out into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. The bag of prescriptions is sitting on the table, but only the antibiotic bottle appears to have been opened. 

When Holden returns to the bedroom, Bill is stripping his undershirt off over his head. He hesitates in the doorway as Bill tosses the shirt aside and braces his elbows against his knees, his forehead against fisted, white knuckles. The faded, yellow light from the lamp casts the taut, sweat-lined muscles of his back in deep shadow that barely masks the tremble of his whole body bracing against waves of pain. 

Holden lowers his head, steeling his stomach against the flip of nausea. The guilt could be enough to overwhelm him, but Bill is the one in real pain. He’d signed up to be nurse-maid, and he has to follow through. He has to do a good job. 

“Here you go.” Holden says, managing a casual tone as he approaches the bed. 

Bill silently accepts the glass of the water and the single, large pain pill. He swallows it back with a scowl.

“Thanks.” He mutters, setting the glass of water on the nightstand.

“We should probably change that bandage, too.” Holden says, quietly. 

Bill casts a faint glance down at his shoulder where the blood is seeping through. 

“Oh. Yeah.” He says, sounding unperturbed by the sight of his own blood. 

Holden hesitates a moment before sitting down on the edge of the mattress beside him. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Holden asks, quietly, his gaze tumbling over the perspiration beading Bill’s temple, the hard clench of his jawline, and the agonized hitch in his shoulders that comes with each breath. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, “I can handle a little bit of pain.”

“A little bit?” Holden scoffs, gently. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.”

“You got shot. This is serious.” Holden says, “You need to take the Percocet from now on. You aren’t going to recover if you can’t even sleep.”

Bill gives a scraped chuckle. “You sound like Nancy.”

Holden purses his lips. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Thanks, but have you ever been shot before?”

“No.”

“Well, you just have to work through it.” Bill says. “It hurts like hell until it doesn’t.”

“I agreed to come here and stay with you because I didn’t want you to have to work through it alone.” 

Bill’s gaze shifts up to meet Holden’s, glistening hazy blue with exhaustion and pain. A minute tremble ripples across his mouth.

“I hope you know that.” Holden adds, gently. 

Bill’s gaze lingers on in the silence, and Holden can feel it unwinding him, opening his chest up, splitting open his skull, rummaging deep for the suppressed desires he’s wrestled with for far too long. In the threadbare hours of the morning, it’s hard to find walls and defenses, all the little deflections work and other people throw up between them. Here, in the privacy of Bill’s bedroom, his longing is raw and open, a tender wound right next to Bill’s bullet-torn shoulder. 

The breathless moment ends when Bill glances away, and reaches for his cigarettes on the nightstand. He lights up, and tosses the lighter on the nightstand with a clatter. Taking a deep drag of nicotine, he plucks the cigarette from his lips and exhales smoke. 

“Listen,” He says, quietly, focusing on the faded, brown carpet under his feet, “I was in the Army for two years in Korea. I enlisted at eighteen and was out by twenty. You know why?” 

Holden shakes his head. 

“I was shot in the back.” Bill says, taking another brief drag of his cigarette. “The doctors said a few inches to the left and I would’ve been paralyzed. I spent weeks in the hospital, got honorable discharge, went home with a fucking medal. All for what? A war with no end? You want to talk about guilt - well, at least this time I got shot in the line of duty, doing something that matters.”

Holden frowns as Bill taps ashes from his cigarette, and mutters a choked scoff. 

“You get what I’m saying?” He asks, casting Holden a sharp glance. 

“I think so.”

“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me.” Bill says, “I got out of that fucking car. I approached the guy. I made the choice.”

Holden swallows hard. He wants to argue, but Bill’s gaze is steely and defiant. He’s still hiding behind layers of bravado, concealing pain that isn’t quite bursting past the seams just yet, but wanting to. Wanting badly to spill free like water from a broken dam; and Holden wants to say aloud that he doesn’t pity Bill, but he does want to take care of him, wants to soothe the pain now more than ever. 

Instead, he sits quietly on the bed while Bill finishes his cigarette. As he smashes the crumbling remnants of the smoke in the ash tray, Holden clears his throat. 

“You want help changing that bandage?” 

Bill glares down at the seeping wound, and he looks ready to argue; but he nods, wordlessly, his jaw clenching from side to side. 

“Let’s go to the bathroom.” Holden suggests. 

Holden leads them down the hall to the bathroom where the bulbs over the sink bleach the room in stark white light that deepens the sleepless shadows under Bill’s eyes, and highlights the deep red leaking steadily through the bandage. 

“Sit down.” Holden says, nodding at the closed lid of the toilet. 

Bill takes a seat while Holden washes his hands thoroughly with soap and water. After toweling his hands dry, Holden lines up the new bandaging, gauze, tape, and scissors on the counter. 

“Okay.” Holden murmurs, shuffling carefully between Bill’s knees to reach the bandage. “Ready?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” 

Bill averts his gaze toward the wall as Holden peels the bandage gently from his skin. The sutured wound underneath seeps fresh blood, but the stitches are intact.

Bill winces quietly as cold air hits the inflamed skin. 

Holden wraps up the old bandage and throws in the trashcan before using a damp washcloth to dab the area. 

“Fuck.” Bill mutters, bracing a white-knuckled hand around the edge of the counter. 

“Sorry.” Holden whispers. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

“It’s okay. You’re doing fine.” 

Holden drops the soiled wash cloth in the sink, and grabs the gauze and square bandage from the counter. He peeks a glance up at Bill’s rigid expression as he wads a liberal amount of gauze over the wound. His jawline is etched with a grimace that leads down his throat where flushed skin pulses with the thick line of his jugular. His broad chest rises with a hitched breath, skin puckering with goosebumps of cold and shock. 

Holden’s gaze wanders lower, down the quiver of Bill’s belly to the gray sweatpants riding low on his hips. He swallows hard, shoving down the wildly inappropriate, heated thoughts that are crowding out his genuine concern. 

Refocusing his gaze on the task at hand, he plasters the bandage over the layers of gauze.

“Hold this.” He whispers, his voice holding a strange, hoarse quality. 

Bill reaches up to press the bandage in place while Holden exchanges his grasp for the tape. 

The sound of the tape ripping open cuts through the thick silence, but it isn’t quite enough to reorient Holden’s unraveling thoughts. His fingers tremble as he cuts off a portion of tape, and presses it in place over the top edge of the bandage. 

“You okay?” Bill asks, softly. 

Holden glances up to see Bill gazing back at him, their faces mere inches apart. He can see the minute details of his eyelashes and stubble, the fine pucker in his lower lip, the tiny flare of his nostrils. His breath warmly traverses the scarce space between them, meeting with Holden’s shuddering exhale. 

“Yeah.” Holden says, swallowing back the urges clumping at the back of his throat. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not. You’re good at this.” 

Holden laughs nervously as he turns his attention back to the tape. “Really?”

“Mhm.” Bill mutters, “You’ve got a light touch.”

Holden swallows hard, searching for a reply in between the low hum of need and the wild thump of anxious vulnerability, but coming up with nothing. 

Bill’s head tilts, watching him closely.

Holden can feel the prick of his gaze needling across his temple, his cheek, his throat, inciting a scorching flush, a quivering shame that he can’t quite explain or suppress. He’s simply dressing Bill’s wound; he hasn’t done anything wrong or untoward, but it’s like Bill can read his mind even though he hasn’t accused Holden of anything yet. 

Holden slices off another length of tape, and plasters it on the bottom of the bandage. 

“Okay, you can let go.” He says. 

Bill’s hand slips from the bandage, falling slowly to his knee. 

Holden’s leg brushes against Bill’s inner thigh as he shifts closer, concentrating on taping the left side of the bandage. 

Bill’s chest rises beneath his touch, a deep, steady breath. Holden can hear his tongue click as he swallows slowly. 

Holden tapes the last side of the bandage, but his fingertips linger against the edge of the tape, smoothing down a jagged corner. 

“There. It looks good, right?” He asks. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, “It does.” 

Holden draws in a slow breath, telling himself to retract his hand. They’re too close now, unreasonably so now that the bandaging is done. 

Holden takes a step back, but Bill hand is against his hip, the weight of it sudden and bracing like an electric current threatening to cripple him. He chokes on whatever he might have said as his mouth stammers open. He realizes he’s gripping Bill’s shoulder. 

“That’s what you wanted, right?” Bill asks, “To take care of me?”

Holden can feel his face growing hot again. The question is so innocuous, and yet they know one another well enough to realize it’s anything but chaste. 

“Yes.” He whispers, breathing it like a confession. 

“I don’t need you to. I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life.”

“I know. But I want to.”

Bill’s mouth purses as he glances down, his gaze focusing on the spot where his hand rests over Holden’s hip. 

Holden closes his eyes, steadying his breathing. At once, he’s grateful that Bill isn’t one to hold back honesty. He’s gone right to the heart of the matter, to Holden’s deepest needs that have opened like a Pandora’s Box, the bullet pulled out of Bill’s shoulder some metallic, mangled key to the whole disjointed collection of desires. 

Holden sinks to his knees, and the tile bites through the thin fabric of his pajama trousers into skin and bone. He clutches Bill’s hand, bringing it up to his face. 

Bill’s fingers curl reactively against the guidance to cradle Holden’s cheek in his palm. His fingers delve gently into Holden’s nape, dragging him slightly closer. Their breaths rasp loudly in the silence, a muted, broken conversation of mounting desires. 

Holden slips his eyelids open, hesitantly meeting Bill’s burning gaze. His body is thrumming and alive with adrenaline and need, urges cramming in his brain with alarming speed. Every inch of him is suddenly starved for the kind of contact his cheek is getting against Bill’s palm, the heat of it, the strength, the security. 

“I want to.” He whispers, again, his voice choked and breathless. He turns his cheek against Bill’s touch, pushing his mouth up against the inner curve of his thumb. “Please, let me.”

Bill swallows hard, a conflicted frown knitting his brow.

“How?” He asks, quietly, glancing away when he says it. It’s obvious to both of them, but the question is some kind of admission of mutual desire. 

Cradling Bill’s hand against his cheek, Holden presses a row of hot kisses down the crease dissecting his palm and the tender inside of his wrist. 

“Like this.” Holden whispers, his breath seeping hot against Bill’s wrist. He leans closer between Bill’s thighs, nudging tentative fingers across Bill’s thigh. “When’s the last someone touched you, Bill?” 

Bill closes his eyes, hints of need and frustration flickering in the clench of his jaw. 

“Fuck, Holden, I …”

Ignoring the drowning hesitation, Holden resumes the row of kisses down Bill’s wrist and forearm, pulling his lips back to gently scrape his teeth across the soft skin. 

Bill draws in a sharp breath, his eyelids slipping open to watch Holden’s mouth tumble from his inner arm to his chest. He sinks deliberate fingers into Holden’s hair, encouraging the eager push of Holden’s lips. 

Holden utters a quiet groan as his mouth lands hot and slick against Bill’s chest, tasting his skin and the salt of perspiration. Bill’s fingers knot in his hair, ensuring his mouth stays close as he makes his way lower, kissing open-mouthed until he reaches the tender jut of his nipple. 

“Jesus.” Bill hisses as Holden follows the flick of his tongue with a graze of his teeth.

Holden draws back far enough to glimpse Bill’s face, his expression taut with need under the blaring white light over the sink.

“Should I keep going?” Holden whispers, the words strangled with urgency. 

Bill nods without hesitation. He casts a quick glance downward as Holden pushes his hand up Bill’s inner thigh. His hips cant forward, and Holden glimpses the swelling bulge of his erection awakening beneath the sweatpants. 

He pauses, his mouth slipping open. He’d gone so far, propelled by his own needs, but he hadn’t expected Bill’s desires to be so effusive, so obvious, so easily provoked. 

Bill’s fingers tug in his hair, prompting Holden back into motion. He applies his mouth again to Bill’s nipple, sucking before allowing his teeth to scrape gently over the sensitive skin.

Bill gives a choked groan that urges the need coursing through Holden’s body. He leans into Holden’s mouth, knuckles locking against Holden’s scalp.

Holden whimpers as the firm grip needles faint pain across his scalp. He presses his mouth lower, following the hard lines of Bill’s ribs before encountering the soft quiver of his belly. While his mouth seeks downward, his palm crawls up along Bill’s thigh, pushing past the folds of the sweatpants to find Bill’s cock straining against the fabric. He rubs the heel of his hand against the hard bulge, and feels Bill’s body lurch with need. 

“Fuck.” Bill whispers the tortured groan in a low, shaky voice that makes Holden’s body flush with needy shivers. 

He slips his fingers under the waistband, and tugs the fabric away from the jutting tip of Bill’s cock. Hard, pink flesh springs free, naked and bursting beneath the single layer of clothing. Holden mutes a gasp as Bill’s cock falls into his hand, big and twitching with unbridled desire. 

Bill shoves the sweatpants down around his thighs, letting his cock entirely free of the garment. He sighs a sound of pleasure as Holden’s fingers wrap around the shaft, curling tight against the tempo of need pulsing through it. 

Holden shoots a glance up to check Bill’s expression, but all he sees is pleasure and need. His chest swells with confidence, bolstered by the same uncontrollable heat of desire burning through his own veins. 

Licking his lips, he leans forward to meet Bill’s cock guided by the grasp of his hand. He lets his breath trickle hot and slow across the swollen head for a moment, stirring deep arousal. 

Bill’s grip on his hair tightens, urging his mouth closer. 

Holden takes it in his mouth, slowly. The flesh is hot and blunt and hard, and he opens his mouth wider and wider as he sinks down, taking as much of it as he can manage without choking himself. 

Bill gasps, his hips shuddering beneath the slow, slick descent of Holden’s mouth. 

“Oh, fuck.” He whispers, his voice shaking through the curse. 

Holden tightens his lips to create wet suction as he goes back up, sucking to the tip before going down again. Saliva pools at the back of his tongue, and he lets it sluice down the shaft while he sucks, lubricating the friction into a steady glide. Adjusting his grip around the root of Bill’s cock, he squeezes in rhythm with the pace of his mouth, ensuring every inch is touched and pleasured. 

Bill groans as he exchanges his grip on Holden’s hair for the solid edge of the sink counter to brace himself. 

Holden’s scalp tingles as it’s set free, his mouth left to roam as freely and quickly - or slowly - as he likes. Bill’s thighs fall open to Holden’s pleasuring, hips only slightly rocking up against the wet stroke of his mouth but mostly relaxing submissively to pace Holden’s sets. 

Holden eases the pace of his sucking, and lets his mouth drag off the slick, bulbous head nearly bursting with need. He shoots Bill a heavy-lidded glance, breathing heavily against wet, pulsing cock. 

“How’s that?” He murmurs, eager for the affirmation already spilling brokenly from Bill’s mouth. 

“Good.” Bill whispers, his brow twisting with need as Holden’s breath spills torturously down the throbbing length. “Don’t stop.”

Holden swirls his tongue over the head, lapping up the salty hint of pre-cum straining hungrily at the slit. 

“Fucking Christ.” Bill whispers, his whole body clenching with a shudder. His eyelids crack open to regard Holden with trembling desperation. 

Holden drags his tongue down the underside of the shaft, following the thick, swollen vein that stretches from root to tip. His breath clouds hot against the fiercely aroused skin as he licks his way back up, drooling saliva sloppily along the shaft. 

“How long since you came like this?” Holden whispers, curling his fingers around the slick base and squeezing. 

“I don’t know.” Bill pants, his hips squirming against Holden’s gradual ministrations. “Feels like forever.”

Holden sucks briefly, wetly on the tip, lets it pop free of his mouth glistening and weeping with intense arousal. 

“F-fuck.” Bill whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut and his teeth pinching at his lower lip. 

“You need this, don’t you?” Holden murmurs, his thumb dragging through the slick mix of saliva and pre-cum pooled at the tip. 

Bill nods, words lost inside a strangled groan. 

“Say it.” Holden whimpers, his head rushing with a dizzy burst of satisfaction. His lips slide across Bill’s cock head, lazy and wet, wringing it from him. 

“I .. I need it.” Bill groans, the words fractured in longing, breathless syllables. 

_ So do I. _ Holden thinks, his whole body clenching with arousal at the sound of Bill’s voice. 

He takes Bill’s throbbing cock in his mouth again, eager to expedite Bill’s pleasure, have him falling apart and coming helplessly in Holden’s hands. 

Bill’s fingers delves into his hair again, not forceful but encouraging the swift bob of Holden’s head beneath his palm. 

“God …” He groans, his voice going breathless and hoarse as pleasure approaches. “Holden, fuck … that’s good. That’s good. Like that …”

Heat floods Holden’s veins as the praise reaches his ears. He quickens the pace until his lips are burning with friction, his jaw is aching, and he’s nearly choking himself with every thrust. 

Bill’s body stiffens beneath the swift glide of his mouth, and his fist clutches tighter around Holden’s hair. Holden hears him draw in a strangled breath just before his pleasure breaks loose. His hips thrust up against Holden’s mouth, going rigid for a few trembling seconds before he begins to quiver from head-to-toe, gripped by powerful spasms of orgasm. 

Holden moans as hot, salty release gushes into his mouth, coming again and again with every jolt of Bill’s hips against him. He hangs onto Bill’s thighs, breathing hard through his nostrils while Bill’s fist guides his mouth up and down his releasing cock, milking the pleasure until he eases to a limp, trembling stop. 

Holden draws back carefully, his mouth overflowing with come. 

Bill braces his hand against the counter, and wilts forward, breathing heavily. 

Staggering to his feet, Holden leans over the sink to spit into the drain. His body is trembling with a strung-out cocktail of spent adrenaline and living arousal, but reality has just struck, and he’s staring at his flushed expression in the mirror. His mouth is wet and dripping with come, the taste of it thickly coating his mouth, some of it unavoidably slipping down the back of his throat. 

Averting his gaze from his reflection, Holden bends to cup his hands under the faucet and rinse his mouth out. He swishes with water and spits several times, but the taste lingers and so does the painful tug of need contained in his trousers. 

Dabbing his mouth with the hand towel, Holden straightens to cast a glance over his shoulder at Bill. 

Bill looks up from the floor tiles, and for a moment his expression is cool and unreadable. He rises to his feet and approaches Holden, his mouth set in a firm line. 

Holden takes a staggered step back, his chest seizing. He’s waiting to be reprimanded, accused or shouted out, maybe even struck; but Bill backs him into the wall, and pins him there gently with a hand on his cheek. 

His eyes are eviscerating blue as he strokes a thumb across Holden’s cheek and against his damp lower lip. 

Holden blinks rapidly, trying to read the noverbal clues. 

Bill sighs quietly, his thumb pausing against Holden’s lower lip. “You’re right. It has been way too long.” He murmurs. 

Holden swallows hard. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yeah.” Bill says. He ducks his head, and laughs suddenly, snapping the tension. “Fuck. I had no idea …”

“No idea what?” 

“That you could … that you  _ would  _ do that.” Bill says, lifting his gaze to pin Holden with a bemused expression. 

“Me either.” Holden says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “But I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for awhile.”

Bill’s expression sobers. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Really?” Holden asks, dubiously. “You, Bill Tench, have thought about having sex with another man?” 

“Yes.” Bill says, defensively. “Now don’t use that to beat me over the head with.”

“I’m not. I’m just … surprised.” 

“Yeah, no more than I am.” 

Holden places a gentle hand over Bill’s chest, extending a quiet suggestion. “Do you, um … do you still want to …?”  
Bill leans back just far enough to peek down at Holden’s groin. “You’re still hard, aren’t you?”

Holden purses his lips over a groan, and nods. 

“Good.” Bill mutters. “I think we’re done here. You wanna go back to bed?”

“Yeah.” 

Bill pauses a moment, his gaze running over Holden’s eager expression. Stroking his thumb along Holden’s cheek and beneath his chin, he turns his mouth up to impart a slow kiss strained with half-slaked hunger. 

Holden whimpers first in surprise and then in pleasure as Bill’s mouth strokes across his lips, plying them open, gently curling his tongue inside. The taste of it layers sweetly across the lingering salt of release, the two combining into a heady tang that Holden feels drunk on. 

When Bill’s mouth slides from his lower lip and releases him, Holden draws in a hitched breath, trying to remind himself how to breathe properly. His eyelids flutter open, taking in Bill’s expression of melted desires. 

“Let’s go.” Bill murmurs, reaching down to take his hand. 

Holden curls his fingers around Bill’s, and follows him out of the bathroom, leaving the tape and gauze scattered on the sink. 

~

The letter of censure lands on Holden’s desk three months later after lengthy discussion by the OPR. 

Holden reads it aloud to Bill that evening while they’re laying in bed, his tone falling to a taut whisper as he reaches the section charging him with “flagrant conduct that caused injury to a fellow agent and the unnecessary deaths of further victims which could have been avoided by following the proper procedures in the field.” 

“Fuck.” Holden mutters. He lets the letter drop to his lap. “They make it sound like I pulled the trigger.”

“It’s a censure. Did you expect them to go easy on you?” Bill asks, rolling over to soften the question with a reassuring hand on Holden’s chest. 

“No.” Holden says, tossing the letter onto the nightstand with a sigh.

“You didn’t have to take the fall.” Bill says, “I’ve been censured before. My career would have survived, you know.”

“I didn’t ‘take the fall’. It was my fault, plain and simple.”

“Okay, fine.” Bill says, retracting his hand from Holden’s body as Holden’s tone grows defensive. 

“I’m sorry.” Holden says, pressing his eyes shut. “I know I’ve been expecting this for months, but the letter has me a little keyed up.”

“Understandable.” Bill says, propping himself up on his elbow to inspect Holden’s terse expression. “How  _ did  _ you manage to convince the OPR to censure you and not me?”

Holden’s eyes creep open, sheepishly. “I may have spoken to Ted.” 

Bill shakes his head, chuckling softly, “How did that go?”

“About as good as you’d expect.” Holden says, “I think I’m going to have to work a little harder to get his trust in me back to the level it was once at.”

“So, OPR  _ and  _ Ted.” Bill says, “I never would have asked you to walk through the fire like that.”

“I know.” Holden says, shifting closer. Snagging a hand on the front of Bill’s shirt, he rises up from the pillow to press a kiss to Bill’s mouth. “There’s only one thing I would change.”

“What’s that?” 

“This.” Holden murmurs, sliding his hand over to run his thumb across the scar forming on Bill’s shoulder. 

After three months, the wound is nearly healed over into white, puckered scar tissue, an ugly reminder of what had happened, yet also a hopeful benchmark of their progress. There isn’t a day that’s gone by since that first night he stayed at Bill’s house that he hasn’t laid eyes on the wound. He’s watched it heal every day until finally, he can touch it without inflicting pain. 

Holden leans forward to kiss the mangled skin gently, his mouth lingering while he utters a weary sigh. 

“I wish it wasn’t  _ this _ that’s a matter of record.” Holden murmurs, turning his head to land a kiss on Bill’s mouth. 

Bill hums a pleased sound as Holden’s mouth strokes across his in a slow, simmering kiss. Just as his lips are slipping open to tease with his tongue, Holden draws back. 

“I wish it was that.” Holden says, softly.

“A kiss?” Bill asks, his tone somber despite the choked laugh. “I don’t think that would go over well.”

“I know.” Holden says, averting his eyes bashfully. “I just mean that I hate that me getting you hurt is what everyone knows about and not about how much … that I-”

Silence, except for their quickened breaths, expands. Holden’s body flushes with scattered nerves, honesty boiling in his veins just beneath the surface. 

“That you what?” Bill asks, slowly. 

Holden closes his eyes, bolstering himself. He’s nearly admitted it so he should finish the sentence. He can’t take it back - doesn’t want to. 

“That I think I love you.” He says it quickly, before the words can get lost in the tangle of fear and urgency in his throat. 

When Bill doesn’t immediately respond, Holden slowly opens his eyes. 

Bill scoffs a quiet, strangled laugh. “You think?”

Holden swallows hard. Bill’s hand is cradling his cheek, thumb rubbing indelicately against bone. He can feel the tremor of nervousness in the touch, yet also the quiver of hope, yearning for confirmation. 

“No.” Holden says, and there’s a flash of fear in Bill’s eyes for only a second before he quickly adds, “I know I do.”

Bill’s mouth quivers with a fragile smile. He leans in to press his mouth against Holden’s, but his lips linger there for only a few moments before he scatters the kisses across Holden’s cheek and temple, his ear and his throat. Holden leans into the hot, heavy stroke of Bill’s mouth eating up to the beat of his pulse just below his jaw, uttering a quiet moan of satisfaction. 

His chest is pounding and weightless as if that confession had been trapped like a bird inside of his ribcage and had now flown free into the dusky evening sky. He’d held tightly too it for the last few months, afraid of what saying it too soon might do to them and how Bill might react; but Bill’s hands are all over him, his breath hot on his neck, his mouth warm and whispering affirmations that leave those misgivings in the dust. As he pins Holden to the sheets, his touch wandering lower, hungry yet tender, the letter, too, is almost entirely forgotten. 

  
  


~the end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!  
> 


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